The Cup

Now comes the time of year
When the sort of talk I hear
Makes me long to scoff and sneer—
    I'm fed up!
For no matter where I am—
On the train or in the tram—
They're spouting foolish flam
    About the Cup.

It's the Cup—it's the Cup!
"Whocher fancy for the Cup?"
"'E orter win as sure as kin."
"A champeen jockey up,"
"They've backed 'im down to eight
    to one."
"Say, did you see the trial 'e done?"
It's the Cup! "Wotcher tippin for
    the Cup?"

Oh, I long to talk of art;
But no sooner do I start
Than a fellow must impart
    Some sure tip,
And he talks of nort but horse,
And the gallop on the course
Till he leaves me no recource.
    I've the pip!

It's the Cup—it's the Cup!
"Wotcher backin' for the Cup?"
"Aw, 'ave a 'art! If 'e should start
    'E'll mop the ole lot up!"
"It's givin' David 'alf a stone!"
"'E's 'ome and dried an on 'is own."
It's the Cup! "Are you comin' to the
    Cup?"

So I suffer for my sins,
And I don't care which horse wins—
I don't give a row of pins
    For the lot.
All this punting populace
May go mad about hte race
But to seek to fall from grace,
    I shall not.

It's the Cup—it's the Cup!
"Wot's the winner of the Cup?"
"Oh, that there 'orse must win, of
    course.
'E's put a gallop up!"
"Why, blime 'e should win by
    miles!"
And all the while the bookie smiles,
It's the cup, Oh confound the blooming
cup.